


Hate Is Such A STRONG WORD

by ChutJeDors



Category: The Beatles
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Swearing, half crack, half sex, like honestly there's a lot of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 05:13:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7346518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChutJeDors/pseuds/ChutJeDors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What would you say," John whispers against Paul, making him shiver, "if I only fingered you today?" His look is knowing and he's waiting for it; waiting for Paul to say that word that he'll never say.</p><p>"I will cut your balls off when you sleep if you dare," Paul answers through gritted teeth, making sure that John knows he <i>hates</i> him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hate Is Such A STRONG WORD

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ in 2015.
> 
> THIS THING RIGHT HERE is _accidental_ porn. Accidental, you ask? How can _porn_ be _accidental_??? no way it could be right? Well I tell you. This was supposed to be ARTISTIC and THOUGHtFUL and PHILOSOPHIC and all that monologue kinda thing and suddenly Paul was just... tied to the bedpost and i just. i doN'T KNOW ANYMORE OKAY
> 
> The word 'hate' is repeated 26 times, just so you know. No h8 m8 xoxoxoxxx
> 
> Beta-ed by Anna who is a love <3

Paul hates John Lennon.  
  
He can't remember a moment in his life when he wouldn't have hated him.  
  
He hated him the first time they met; his voice, his posture, that plaid shirt and the way he would act like he owned Paul already. Paul hated him.  
  
And then later on, when they started composing; With John always looking at him with that knowing expression, his glasses hanging on top of his nose, defying the laws of gravity when he would lower his head to see what he was playing. Paul hated him.  
  
Then in Hamburg, where they would play from night to night, without rest, without proper beds, food, _anything_. John standing in his leather clothes, his dear guitar in his hands, a cigarette hanging off his lips. He would look at Paul and smile, even if he couldn't see him properly, not without his glasses. He would move his arm a bit and the leather would stretch, would let out a squeaking sound, and all of it on purpose, like he _knew_ what it would cause inside Paul. Paul hated him.  
  
Then came Brian, who made them famous. John grinning at Paul in the middle of bright lights, singing into a microphone, his mouth inches away from Paul's. Their arms brushing as they play like their lives depend on it. John's eyes meeting Paul's, his smile widening even more, his voice trembling along with the laugh that wants to come out. Paul hated him.  
  
Paul hated him when John went to Spain. He thought he had never hated him more. How he had ditched him like that, left the band and left _Paul_ and went and had sex with their manager. Or that was what Paul wanted to believe. He hated John and he also said it, when the man was standing on Paul's doorstep again, face all brown and eyes shining with light that would soon turn dark.  
  
John standing in front of him, eyes narrowed and lips squeezed into a thin line. Paul's shouting echoing in the air, the silence that followed it painful and ringing in their ears.  
  
Paul hated him.  
  
So he slammed the door shut and left John standing all alone, without giving him a chance to defend himself.  
  
And then Paul hated himself a bit too.  
  
So he went back. And he opened the door. And John was still standing there, and he was watching Paul with a slightly miserable face. Paul leaned on the door and he crossed his arms over his chest. And then John tilted his head and put on that face that Paul _hated_ and asked if he could come in.  
  
Paul said yeah, but I will kick you in the arse.  
  
John grinned blindingly and walked in.  
  
And Paul closed the door and turned to face him warily, and he didn't know whether he wanted to lock John up into the music room so that he could never leave Paul like that again, or if he wanted to throw him out of the window and leave the body on the street for fans. John sighed and didn't smile anymore.  
  
Paul grimaces when he thinks about what happened next. He might also grimace because of some other _things_ that are happening to him right _now_ , but grimacing for the sake of the memory is much less embarrassing.  
  
He asked if John wanted tea. John answered that the tea could wait.  
  
And then he said that Paul surely knew that the situation was very difficult.  
  
And then he looked hesitant and continued to say that Paul had a reason to be angry.  
  
And then he claimed that nothing had happened between him and Brian.  
  
Paul threw an umbrella at him. Funny how riled up one can get when there are lies being told.  
  
John blocked and Paul reached for another one.  
  
Paul has eleven umbrellas. He doesn't know where they came from. He thinks that at least one belongs to Ringo. Two of them might be George's. The rest are probably John's. Paul can't remember having bought an umbrella. Of course, his memory might have some problems functioning, taking the current _situation_ into account. But, the umbrella part isn't very important, considering what came next.  
  
Paul didn't get a chance to throw any more umbrellas. John, you see, walked two fast steps and took a hold of Paul's both wrists, held his hands in the air. Paul considered kicking his family treasures but ended up yelling on his face.  
  
Unfortunately, John is stronger than what people might initially expect him to be. He can easily punch a man in the face. He can easily hold off George in the struggle of Who Gets The Last Biscuit. He can easily hold Paul down when... Um. When... Well.  
  
Well. _Then_ what happened changed the way that Paul thought of John.  
  
So John was holding his hands -wrists, actually. Paul was calling him all sorts of shit-bag jerk-arse names. John forced him to go backwards and so Paul met the closed door, cursing John.  
  
Paul isn't so sure anymore about all the things he called the man. He isn't even sure he was cursing him in the end. It is kind of hazy to him, actually. It became that when John -  
  
"Will you bloody listen??? I didn't do _anythin'_ with Brian, and he didn't try anything on _me_ 'cos I told 'im I'm _yours_!!!"  
  
Paul probably stopped writhing at this point, but might've still shot one tiny 'twatwaffle' which, he thinks, is a grand word.  
  
"The only thing we did was _talk_ 'cos he asked me all kind of _things_ an' then I jus' _told_ 'im and he explained stuff to me."  
  
Paul can't remember if he spit on John's face at this point. He could have.  
  
"And he told me that, uh... that I should just _go_ for it. 'Cos he knew. He was sure. That you do too. Maybee-ee?"  
  
Paul asked what the fuck that meant. John looked troubled.  
  
"I'm not gay, so you know," he said. Paul wanted to tell him that yes, he was. But then John kissed him.  
  
Paul forgot that anything had ever existed except John's lips. And he decided that he utterly, thoroughly hated John.  
  
And then came the rest till now. America. The film. Lots and lots of composing, sitting face to face, sometimes also mouth to mouth. And Paul came too, many times. John would kiss him, inside the safe walls of Paul's music room. Sometimes he would be rough, just like Paul needed it. Sometimes he would be gentle; cradling Paul in his arms like he was made of glass, like he was something much more valuable that he actually was. He would smile at Paul and his slightly crooked front tooth would shine white when light touched it. Paul hated him, but maybe not so much anymore.  
  
But now Paul hates John.  
  
Before he thought that he couldn't hate him more, with all the Brian stuff and that. But that assumption turned out to be false. Because never, _ever_ in his life has Paul hated him more than now.  
  
Paul absolutely _loathes_ John Lennon.  
  
Because the man is fucking pulling away again.  
  
"For fuck's sake!" Paul yells and turns, tries to catch John who laughs hysterically. But Paul can't reach for him. Because his hands are tied. To the bed. And John has been teasing him for _37 minutes_. Paul has been _counting_.  
  
"Just lie down!" John says with a cheerful voice and Paul groans, moans, writhes, does nothing that he hasn't already during the last _37_ , no, _38_ minutes. John crawls towards him once again, pokes his dick that is _hurting_ , that Paul thinks will turn _blue_ if he can't _come_. He's tried. He tried thinking of all kinds of things that got him there before. But pretty birds stripping for him don't work. It's only John, when he hovers over Paul, with his _jeans_ still on as well, for fuck's sake, that Paul can find himself hardening, can feel the knots in his stomach turning and twisting.  
  
But it's not _enough_. He needs _touching_ , he needs something more than this. But John, the tart, doesn't do anything. He watches Paul, that's what he does. He watches, and he smiles when Paul looks at him with desperate eyes.  
  
After that first kiss, that unsaid confession that both were too coward to say out loud, they've had plenty of time to adjust to this switch in their relationship. They are comfortable with each other, including mind and body. John's soul is beautiful and Paul waits for those few moments during the day that he can get a glimpse of it. He can't have enough of the expression that the man makes during an orgasm. He can't have enough of the feeling of John's lips on his neck. He can't have enough of John.  
  
But this, _this_ is just plain work of the _devil_. John watches him a lot. There's nothing new in that; in the studio, during the interviews, when they are composing, when they are having sex. John watches him with eyes that say that Paul is important, that John loves him even if he can't say it out loud, because that would be just _gay_.  
  
But these are not those eyes. These are the eyes of pure _cruelty_.  
  
"John!!!" Paul lets out a sound that is more like a screech than an actual human sound. John laughs again, lights a cigarette before sitting on the side of the bed, looking down at him with hunger in his eyes.  
  
"You have no idea how you look," he mutters with humour in his voice, but with an expression that tells Paul that John is on the verge as well; on the verge of jumping on Paul and eating him. Eating him. Literally. Paul has teeth marks as proof.  
  
"Well, I would if I got a chance to tie _you_ down," he says with a poisonous tone in his voice and John snorts, says that's not going to happen. And Paul knows that he's lying because John has a kink for it. Tie down and be tied down. That is his kink and Paul is the unfortunate soul that has to suffer because of it.  
  
He knows that John is waiting for one, small word that Paul will never say, no matter what. He won't plead, even if it would be the hottest thing ever, actually. And Paul knows that this is revenge for a night they shared a week or so ago. Paul fucked John and stopped just before John orgasmed. And only when John said please, Paul continued.  
  
He should've known better that he would end up like this.  
  
"You should've known better," John mumbles and his free hand that is not holding the cigarette comes up, touches Paul's side so lightly it makes Paul shiver. He can't say if it's turning him on even more, or if he is just ticklish. But it doesn't feel nice, and John knows it. He knows Paul's body, even better than Paul himself. It's scary, a bit, but then again Paul trusts the man. He would do anything for John, really. Even _this_.  
  
"W-well m-maybe I just-t-" he manages through gritted teeth, but then John is leaning over him and his hand is touching Paul's dick. Paul forgets the words that he was meaning to say, and ends his sentence on a feeble cry. John grins at him while his hand is slowly stroking Paul's shaft, his eyes never leaving Paul's, the expression in them pondering. He is probably thinking about the next evil trick he'll perform.  
  
"It's sad, though," he sighs, and Paul can't listen, can't hear, because blood is rushing in his ears and _oh god_ , maybe this is finally it, maybe he could _finally_ just get _relief_ , maybe... "...how you become utterly desperate like this. Where is that heat when you sing?"  
  
"Smeghead. _Smeghead_ ," Paul hisses and arches his hips up, meeting John's hand, begging without words. He looks at John with wide eyes, hoping to get the message through. _Please, just fuckin' let me come_. He hates John. He _hates_ -  
  
"Don't you DARE!!!" he screams when John makes a move again, lets Paul go, and now Paul is almost crying. He screams and struggles and calls John all sorts of bad things that have no right to exist, and battles against the ties around his wrists. He will kill John. He will kill him.  
  
"Easy, now," John just says, his voice soft and quivering with amusement. He's almost laughing, Paul knows. He stumps the cigarette into an ashtray on the nightstand and starts taking off his tie. He hasn't even taken his clothes off. And Paul has been suffering for _43_ minutes. Okay, it is kind of hot, when John has clothes on and Paul's naked. And John looks hot in a shirt and jeans, but _still_. This is just _unfair_.  
  
The man only opens the shirt, though, and leaves it hanging like that. He turns back to Paul and smiles, his eyes lighting up like he is a child who has just been given a sweet. Paul is frightened.  
  
"Now," John says out loud, coming over to Paul's head and beginning to stroke his cheek softly. Paul tries not to purr, because that would be just _embarrassing_ , but it's just that _any_ touching from John is _so_ good. He will murder the man when he's sleeping.  
  
"What shall I do with you next?"  
  
It is amazing how fast John can wake up Paul's urge to bite off the hand that is currently caressing his lips. But Paul doesn't bite, no. He kisses, and he hopes to get John so desperate that he wouldn't be able to hold back anymore and would bend Paul over and fuck him. That is an excellent plan and Paul knows it'll work. Maybe; it hasn't worked before, though. John has an excellent control over his wants and needs during sex. Paul can't understand it sometimes. Maybe that explains why the lad is such a child outside the bedroom.  
  
He kisses John's fingers, and he hears John sigh contently. He slowly darts out his tongue, licks, tastes the cigarette but also himself. He wonders if his scent is stuck on John's hands forever. It certainly seems so.  
  
He moves his head and wraps his lips around the two digits, takes them in and looks at John, using all of his mighty eye powers. He knows it is stupid, that it looks stupid when he is gazing at John with the kind of eyes that whores normally use when giving a blow job, but he also knows what it does to John. He is trying to keep the frown off his forehead and concentrates on sucking, imagining that these are not John's fingers, but something else entirely. He watches John wh is breathing rapidly, staring at him through half-closed eyelids, moving all the time closer and closer, giving Paul easier access on his fingers. Paul drools on them, and he knows he's good. He's had practice. And he _knows_ that John is almost there. He has almost snapped. Only a bit more, and-  
  
John pulls his hand away and Paul lets out a startled sound that is almost a whine, but it's muted by John's lips crashing down on his, swallowing the sounds he makes, taking possession of his mouth. Paul can't breathe, not with John's tongue deep in his throat, John's teeth scraping his, but he isn't sure if it's because of the kiss being breath-taking, or can't he just access his lungs. But he relishes it, fighting to keep going, doesn't care even when his body starts spasming, when he _really_ needs air. John is crouched right next to him, and his body is looming over Paul's, and his lips are moving and pressing Paul against the mattress, his other hand sweeping over Paul's body, and the other right on the way towards...  
  
"MMHM!" Paul breaks the kiss, can't help it anymore. He pulls his head away as much as he can (which is not much) and gasps, takes a deep breath and that is all he can do, before John is kissing him again, eating his face, snogging the hell out of him and other equally describing sentences. Paul struggles, not really because he'd want to get away, but because it makes his blood rush cold and hot and he knows that John likes it. And besides, he still has that erection. That John isn't paying any attention to. That is _hurting_ , and Paul _knows_ his dick will fall off after this. If it doesn't, he'll cut it off. That would teach John some _manners_.  
  
And then he stills.  
  
He stills because he doesn't know what else he could do. His whole body jerks and then freezes, and he's stopped kissing -even if John's still invading his mouth-, can't even make a _sound_ , because John's fingers that were in Paul's mouth are now slowly pushing inside him. Just like that, without any warning, John is pushing them in. Paul doesn't know if he should feel offended for the lack of permission or if he should cry and scream and tell John to _get on with it_ , for _fuck's sake_.  
  
He chooses the latter because, well, the situation kind of demands it. He tugs at the ties furiously, wants to take a hold of John and peel his clothes off, and maybe his skin too. He wants to pull John on top of him and hold him, and never let go. And also strangle him and throw his body into the sea. That as well.  
  
John curls his fingers, and thrusts them slowly inside Paul, and Paul is a mess. John's lips search his again and he allows John to kiss him. He needs it faster. He _can't_ take it slowly like this. He rocks his hips, and without caring about how sluttish it makes him feel, he pushes himself down on the two things that are too small, too slow, not enough, but still more than he can bear.  
  
"Paul," John groans and stills his movements with his other hand, presses down his left hip. "Oh, Jesus... Slow down, you'll hurt yourself."  
  
Paul can't bring himself to care. John is panting, and Paul moans, his back arches off the bed. John has chosen the hotel room well; it's cheap but there's a bed, and a bathroom with a shower. Paul likes showers, especially if he's enjoying their comfort with John. He should've suggested that before John tackled him and threw him on the bed with ropes in his hands. Paul started shouting at him at that point.  
  
John kisses Paul again, and then he just lets his lips hover over Paul's. They stare at each other and Paul can see every freckle, every tiny wrinkle he has around his eyes. He can see himself reflecting in John's eyes, his face flushed and expression wild. He feels John’s breath puff against his lips and he darts out his tongue, tastes John's gasps in the air. He touches John's upper lip and John shudders, and looks at him, and pulls his fingers out.  
  
Before Paul can say or do anything though, is John thrusting them in again and Paul babbles something about hanging John in these damn ropes later on. He needs _more_. _Why isn't John fucking him yet, for Christ's sake???_ Paul has been waiting for _hours_. Or at least it feels as such.  
  
"What would you say," John whispers against Paul, making him shiver, "if I only fingered you today?" His look is knowing and he's waiting for it; waiting for Paul to say that word that he'll never say.  
  
"I will cut your balls off when you sleep if you dare," Paul answers through gritted teeth, making sure that John knows he _hates_ him.  
  
John tuts and shakes his head, stroking the inside of Paul’s anus in slow circles.  
  
"Not the kind of answer I would've liked to hear," he sighs and Paul knows what will happen next. He tries not to wail when John stops all the movements of his fingers. He tries not to cry because the _burning_ inside is so painful, his dick is on fire and he doesn't know how long he'll be able to do this. He can't. Function.  
  
John's lips touch his neck and Paul’s breath hitches; he closes his eyes and tries not to explode from sheer frustration. The feeling is overwhelming. John's mouth closes around his skin and sucks, and Paul lifts his legs, is ready, and he swears to God that if John's not doing anything now he's gonna seriously never give the man anything at all, whether it was the A-side of a single or sex. He's never. Gonna. Give. Anything.  
  
Paul feels like he thinks about this a lot. He is sure that he does, but only during sex. And because afterwards his thoughts are always a bit vague, he's unfortunately forgotten these things. When he should be denying everything from John, he accidentally gives him everything. All of himself, all of his feelings, everything. But John gives him equally as much.  
  
The very thought of him makes Paul's heart sing. It's been like that always. Every glance, every time their eyes meet, Paul burns, and he needs John. The touch of John's hand is like heaven, when it travels down Paul's body, strokes him, caresses him. Every kiss that they share is coaxing, flaming, and they tell Paul that John feels the same. And Paul surrenders, every time, because he knows that John surrenders too, when it's his turn.  
  
"Okay," he breathes and John stops mouthing his skin, lifts his head. His jeans are half-way open; he is probably in a very painful condition as well. Paul couldn't imagine having _anything_ covering his erection at the moment. He can't remember when John opened the zip, though. He had to be distracted, somehow.  
  
"Hm? What was that?" John asks with a blinding grin and _oh_ , how Paul _hates_ him. He wants to sob, but he can't. His arms move helplessly a bit, and if Paul was free, he would now punch John. Right on his annoying nose. He would kill.  
  
"Okay," he says a bit louder, closing his eyes. He doesn't want to see John's victorious smile. And then his voice is just a whisper, a pathetic little desperate whisper that he knows will light up John's face.  
  
"Please."  
  
It is quiet. It is quiet in the hotel room. Paul can't hear cars outside; he wonders what time it is. It must be past midnight, because they got out of the studio at 22 o'clock. George and Ringo went home. Paul and John went into a hotel. The lady at the reception is old, and she made Paul wonder how a corpse like her has permission to work still.  
  
He can hear water dripping somewhere. The faucet, in the loo, is making the sound. There is a thump somewhere in some of the walls, floor, the ceiling, Paul isn't sure in which one. He wonders how much noise he and John have been making. It is quiet now, though.  
  
The bed creaks and he feels John's weight shifting. He keeps his eyes closed, because it is calming, and he gets time to breath; time to think about something other than his raging hard-on. He is calm, and John moves off the bed, and Paul hears his jeans drop on the floor. John's breathing is fast, and Paul's chest is rising up and down as well, his lungs filling with air only to push it out seconds after. He waits. He relaxes the muscles in his arms, lets his back press against the mattress with a sigh, he moves his legs just to wake them up, to ready them for what is coming. John is now silent. Paul is waiting.  
  
A hand is the first thing that Paul registers. It presses down, right next to his armpit, and then a second hand follows, on the other side of his head. He swallows when something comes in front of the light, and then a weight of John's body lowers on top of him. And he is naked, and Paul's breath hitches, he gasps and squeezes his eyes even more shut. He somehow wishes that John would have blinded him. There is something in the darkness that makes everything better. John is the only one Paul can give himself to in this way. John is the only one Paul trusts enough to let him blind him, tie him, _use_ him like this.  
  
John mouths his earlobe and Paul opens his eyes, the faint light of the lamp making him see blue and green dots for a second. He shifts, lifts his right leg and their erections brush together, and Paul cries out, John lets out a sound that is muffled by Paul's throat. John's hands grab Paul from the side of his chest and his fingers dig in, deep, and Paul knows there'll be bruises tomorrow; five little dots on both sides that will cause John to grin madly every time they're changing clothes. Paul tries to protest, but he can't, because it feels too good, and he's losing his mind, and he's waiting, _still_ waiting, for John to _do_ something.  
  
John's hands wander lower, and Paul has already been prepared. He sighs from relief when John takes a hold of his legs, and the man moves, if not a bit awkwardly, on his knees. Paul knows John prefers fucking like this; face to face, so that John can see the expressions the younger man makes, and so that he can always kiss Paul, without any problems, without anything coming on the way. Paul, to be truthful, has nothing to complain about. He is as happy as one can be, only if John would _get on it_ and stop being so slow!  
  
"Just fuckin' _do_ it," Paul hisses and John laughs, breathlessly and wonderfully, his voice rich and coming deep from his chest. But Paul doesn't think about that, he thinks about killing the man. Strangling. Chopping his dick off. His head too. He hates John.  
  
"I'm on the way there," John answers, his voice cheeky and he winks, and Paul sees half red, half black, because his dick is killing him. He can feel how the erection is slowly sucking the life out of him, creating a mindless monster that will do anything to get release. Paul will rip off these ties and throw John on the other side of the room and fuck him, deep and mercilessly, and he will show John how it feels when you're in _pain_ like this.  
  
"Where'd you put the vaseline?" The other man turns his head, looking wondrous. Paul's eye twitches.  
  
"JOHN!" he yells and John's laugh is maniacal. The lad pulls the vaseline tin from somewhere (his butt crack, Paul thinks sadistically) and opens the lid slowly like he's in no hurry _at all_. Then he coats his fingers in the greasy substance and with his other hand lifts Paul's right leg up, holds it there, and pushes two digits in.  
  
Paul is so _not_ in the mood for this kind of _delay_. But he can't know if John's good mood will disappear in few seconds, so it's better to enjoy the two tiny body parts inside his butt. He doesn't say anything, but John had become good at guessing the thoughts behind his facial expressions.  
  
" _Oh_ ," he starts and Paul curses in his mind, shuts his eyes shut and twists the ties in his hands a bit, "is this too _slow_ for you?"  
  
"Fuck you," Paul hisses and John grins, holding back a laugh. He curls his fingers and hits Paul's prostate and Paul twitches, squirms and pants. John starts giggling.  
  
"You sure are one hell of a slut," he states through the giggles and Paul considers kicking him, but if he accidentally made John unconscious then he would never -oh god- get to free his hands and - _oh **god**_ \- would never _come_. _Oh god_.  
  
He shivers at the thought and forces his leg to stay still. John twists his fingers inside Paul for a few times more and then he pulls them out once again, leaving an empty feeling behind them. Paul groans and moves his hips, wishes that John would understand that _yes_ , he is well-prepared now and that _no_ , John _would not_ be so _caring_ every time they fuck. Paul can handle a bit of pain. It is sweet and all but _still_. Paul is in _need_. John does not _have to_ be so... so _loving_.  
  
Paul knows. He _does_ know. And John knows _too_. Paul really hates him.  
  
John pushes in.  
  
And Paul takes a deep breath, and John is panting on top of him, holding him. Paul feels like he's about to cry. It feels so _awful_ , and it _hurts_ , but it's so _good_. John doesn't move. He waits, like always. Paul wishes he'd move, at least once, on his own accord. But John would never do that, and so it leaves everything to Paul.  
  
"Bloody fuckin' _move_ ," he manages to hiss through his bared teeth and John does just that. For once in his life he obeys and Paul feels like he was hit by a bus. He feels shivers run up and down his arms and he groans, lifts his legs and John takes a hold of his head and kisses him.  
  
Paul has never been the one to decline from a kiss, and certainly not one from John. He hates the way the man kisses. It sweeps Paul off his legs. He would say it more poetically but he somehow always forgets his own name when John presses their mouths together. And now that he's finally moving in and out of Paul the effect is twice its usual amount and so Paul's brain apparently forgets to tell his heart that it should be beating. Because it certainly feels like he has just had a massive seizure.  
  
John breaks off the kiss and buries his head into Paul's shoulder, resting his hands on both sides of him. The weight of the older man's upper body is on Paul's chest and it becomes difficult to breath. So Paul closes his eyes and listens. John is panting. The bassist hears moans and sob-like breaths and he isn't sure if it's him making them. John's other hand touches his leg and Paul let's him hold it. He feels John's fingers dig into his flesh and he sighs when the auburn-haired man hits the spot inside him right on, and he feels his dick twitch. John picks up the pace and Paul's breath hitches and he hears John let out a long groan that gets lost when the man's mouth closes around Paul's nipple. John sucks and Paul yells and then he is suddenly coming.  
  
It kind of takes him by surprise and he gasps, his eyes fly open and he feels them get slightly wet. The tension that has been building up in his body for so long (he isn't sure how long anymore, he's forgotten) lets go and vanishes and he comes, comes like there's no end to it and then he slumps against the mattress after spasming uncontrollably. He feels John hold onto him and knows that the man is coming as well. He feels sick satisfaction knowing that he has managed to last for at least 50 minutes before coming when John came in less than ten minutes.  
  
Although Paul admits that if he'd had John tied to a bed for 40 minutes he himself would come too quite quickly. Gotta give him that.  
  
John lies on top of him for a minute before reaching up and freeing Paul's hands. Paul lifts them up, feeling the blood rush into his fingers. He brings his palms in front of his face and examines them. John rests his head against his throat.  
  
For a while there is only silence. And then Paul lays his hands on top of John and holds him close, nuzzles the man's hair with his nose and lets out a deep relieved breath. His heart is still beating like a high-speed train, but it's getting slower and slower and he feels the final muscles in his abdomen finally relax.  
  
And he breaks the silence.  
  
"I hate you."  
  
John stifles a laugh and lifts his head, looks at Paul with his eyes tired but shining, his mouth widened to a laugh, his expression pure _love_.  
  
Paul _knows_.  
  
"I know," John answers and leans in to kiss him.

 

***~ FIN ~***

**Author's Note:**

> Hahaha thank god it's over. cool


End file.
